


The Maroon Shirt

by Rarilee6



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Fluff, Gentle Kissing, Holding Hands, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, One Shot, Sharing Clothes, Sweaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:00:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28800237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rarilee6/pseuds/Rarilee6
Summary: Monty shows up at Waylon's apartment one sweltering afternoon in a sweater that's much too hot.
Relationships: Charles Montgomery Burns/Waylon Smithers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	The Maroon Shirt

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I've posted on my tumblr and on wattpad already, but I thought it might be enjoyed here too.

Monty shifted his feet on the ground, scowling at the signs of wear around the building.

He glanced now and again at the door, debating on the next step.

He raised his fist a few times, let it fall, and scoffed indignantly at himself. What was he doing?

With all he could muster, he rapped sharply on the surface, his knuckles stinging from the force applied. A muffled noise inside made him withdraw his hand, uncurled it, twisted it around his side and behind his back.

Why was he here?

Why was Smithers taking so long to open the door? Surely he would not wait so long for Monty, of all people.

He sighed, crossed his arms, tapped his foot.

He knocked again.

"Smithers- Waylon!" He stared at the handle, willing it to turn. "Open the damned door, would you?"

He wondered if Smithers even heard him between the walls.

"Blast, you don't have a knocker... cheap, plebian housing." Monty considered submitting his hand to another beating against the door. He didn't know how to get Smithers' attention otherwise. More shuffling from the inside. If he could hear inside so well, so could Smithers outside.

"... Sir?" Monty's chest rose and fell. He was entirely too warm in the sweater he'd chosen to wear today.

"Waylon, let me in! It is sweltering outside." The handle, at last, turned with haste, its brass flickering with the beating sunlight. A long creak.

Smithers stared down at him, clearly having just dressed, his shirt unbuttoned at the top and his hair askew. "Monty? What's wrong? I thought you didn't want me to come today."

Monty waved his hand. "No matter." He raised an eyebrow, glancing beyond Smithers' form inside.

"Oh-" Smithers reddened and moved aside.

Monty huffed and took the invitation. Smithers' apartment hadn't changed from the last time he'd been there, ages ago.

Monty seated himself on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. He should not have worn a sweater today. Perhaps....

Smithers closed the door and switched on another light in the room. "So, er..." He scratched his head. "What can I do for you?"

“Would you happen to have some article of clothing into which I could change?" Monty crossed his fingers, sat up, "I regret the decision to wear this."

Smithers' brow creased, but then he smiled as if it were amusing. "My clothes are all a bit big for you."

"You have nothing?"

"I'll go look and try to find something," Smithers resolved. "Do you... would you like a drink?"

"Not particularly. I'll take water, I suppose."

"Sure." Smithers poured water from a pitcher into a glass and handed it to him, his fingers rough, calloused, but gentle.

“I'll be back," he said, and disappeared, towards his bedroom, Monty presumed.

Once he was gone, Monty slouched, tracing the jutting lines of the glass and taking sips of the water, his mouth still dry. There was something odd, but relaxing, about the nature of his and Smithers' interaction- he could not pinpoint the factors, perhaps there was some domesticity- but it was just Smithers doing what he was told.

He waited for some minutes, growing impatient, and indeed rose from the sofa as Smithers' footfalls returned, and he sat down again.

Smithers carried a few folded articles. "These are the smallest shirts I have," he said, handing the pile to Monty, "I'm sorry if none of them fit you."

Monty set the pile atop his legs and picked up the first item. A light blue dress shirt that would clearly hang off him, and not resolve his want for something lighter. The second was a white short-sleeve, rather casual, not what he'd choose for himself. He pursed his lips. The last shirt was a faded maroon, its print barely present still. It was softer than the others, but he didn't know if it would fit.

"The bathroom is right there if you want to change, or do you want me to help you?" Smithers was asking.

Monty tilted his head up, having been lost in thought over the shirts. "I will try this one," he announced, holding up the maroon, "leave me, I am capable."

"Right. Er, I'll put your sweater into the laundry if you want."

"Yes, yes..."

Monty stood, moved from the living area, clutching the shirt, and went into the bathroom. Fortunately, Smithers kept it quite clean, as was his manner, or Monty wouldn't have been able to stand it at all. He lifted the sweater over his head and dropped it on the counter, brushed off his undershirt, and held up the shirt. Smithers' essence permeated it, so familiar and almost intimate. Monty sighed and slipped it on, the remnants of cologne or some other scent, and another, subtler, that he couldn't identify.

"This is the smallest he owns?" he muttered, examining himself in the mirror. He looked ridiculous. At least, he was not swallowed by it, but it hung down his thighs and sloped off his shoulders. Bunching the fabric, he pulled it against himself, defining his frame for a moment, then let it go. A knock on the door. "Are you alright?"

"I am fine." Glancing one last time in the mirror, Monty took his sweater and went to open the door, nearly running into Smithers. "Here," he said, and unceremoniously dropped the sweater in Smithers' arms. "This will hardly do, but it is better than some of your others."

Smithers nodded, his eyes over Monty. "I think it looks nice on you. I'm glad it's not too large."

Monty rolled his eyes. "It is very soft," he admitted, running his hand over the fabric. Smithers smiled. "Er, would you like to stay for lunch?" he asked, holding the sweater a bit tightly, Monty thought, "I was going to make sandwiches. I went to the market yesterday...."

"Yes, dear Waylon, you know I enjoy your cooking." Smithers laughed, and Monty loosened himself a bit, perhaps he was mollified by Smithers' mood, he didn't know.

"Monty?"

"Yes?" His hand hung close to Smithers', in that sun-lit hallway. Biting his lip, he prodded it, waiting for a reaction. It was immediate. Smithers regarded him, his expression bemused. Very close... What would he do now? "What- what was it you wanted to say?" Monty asked. 

"Oh... I'm not sure..." Smithers seemed preoccupied, his cheeks red across. He swallowed. Monty bit his lip again and hooked his fingers around Smithers'. "Er, Monty? What are you doing? I mean-"

"I... I'm not sure...." Monty's words were his stream of conscious, "I like how it feels."

“Oh,” Smithers whispered. Monty felt his hold become more defined. “Are you sure?”

“I… I enjoy being with you,” he said. The shirt hung on him, colour of a hazy sunset sky. “I- I did not come here, in the first instance, to change my shirt.”  
“I didn’t think you did.”   
  


“Hmph.” But Monty looked upward, turned his body towards Smithers, his eyes clear behind the glasses. He reached out his other hand not holding Smithers’ and set it against the taller man’s chest, Smithers’ heart racing so, as his was. He moved his hand down, over, not certain what he was doing. Monty settled on his other arm, took his other hand. “Waylon, I- I’ve come to an understanding, of sorts…”

“What do you mean?”  
“I told you, I enjoy being with you-“  
“I do too.”  
“Oh, yes, I know.”

“Monty,” Smithers breathed, “I… I love you-”  
“I… suspected something… I have, rather…”

“What do you mean?” Waylon asked, creasing his brow.  
  


“I did not know for sure, but you… It took me some time to realise it, Waylon, that you were not only interested in the job and all that entails, but also-”  
“In you?” Smithers asked quietly. At some point he’d drawn closer…  
“If- if you must make it succinct, yes.”   
  


Smithers laughed, and Monty felt his own heart alight, his soul, too, breaking into dawn on the spring afternoon. He had made the right decision, coming here, his only grievance being he had stuck himself in that damned sweater, but he liked the way Smithers’ shirt fell against him now, as if Smithers’ presence were everlasting, safe.

“And…” Smithers said, “what do you, er, think…?”  
Monty used his grip on Smithers’ arm to move himself against Smithers’ taller form overlain with the window’s light, and embraced him. He reached his hand to touch Smithers’ cheek, regarding him, in his paltry attempt to bare himself. Smithers’ arm wrapped around him, held him securely, his other hand on the back of Monty’s neck. Monty swallowed, and anticipating the next step, closed his eyes and pressed his lips against Smithers', slightly cracked and rough but pleasant, and the world slowed.   
“I accept,” he murmured, after he had moved his head back so he could see Smithers again.   
“Accept what…?” Smithers’ face flushed with pink, red, yellow from the sun, his eyes round and curious, expression euphoric.

“You asked what I thought about your interest in me,” Monty said, “So, I kissed you.” He grinned, satisfied with himself.

Smithers said nothing, but then he smiled, and adjusted his grip before leaning towards Monty, brushing his lips against his forehead, the tip of his nose, his cheeks, lingering after the initial kiss, his face against Monty’s, savouring their intimacy, resting. Smithers swept down to his lips, closing over them gingerly, as if he were speaking to Monty through his gestures, conveying the love he felt deeply and fully, assuaging Monty’s fears and remaining hesitations, crumbling the last wall that had stood between them for years. A wall that neither could have brought down alone.

“Monty…” Waylon whispered. He had scarcely looked happier, in love, and with _Monty_.

“Yes?”

His hand stroked Monty’s hair, his movements gentle; Monty leaned his body against Waylon, closed his eyes, sighed in the quiet, content at last.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
